


beside the green, green grass

by feeltripping



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bottom Lexa, F/F, Jealousy, Oral Sex, Soft Girlfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12705429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeltripping/pseuds/feeltripping
Summary: Commission for jacki: soft clexa, sleepy lexa, jealous clarke.





	beside the green, green grass

**Author's Note:**

> No beta but gentlesin gave it a quick look for me so a big thank you to her :)

“Lexa?” Clarke kicks her shoes off, hopping as her toe catches in the loop of one of the laces. “Lexa?”

Lexa pokes her head out of the kitchen, holding a spatula. “What?”

“Food?”

Lexa looks down at the spatula. “No, accessory.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. She goes into the kitchen, sniffing in the hopes of something delicious. She’s greeted with the dishwasher open, half the plates and utensils put away. “Oh,” she says, deflating. “No food.”

Lexa’s phone chimes. The intercom buzzes. “Thai,” she says, poking at Clarke’s shoulder. “Go get it.”

“You get it,” Clarke protests. “It’s your apartment.”

Lexa’s eyes get kind of big. She blinks, slightly pigeon toed. Her stomach grumbles, her palm pressed longingly against it. Clarke almost trips over herself getting to the front door.

She makes Lexa a plate and bustles her over to the table, tugging out a chair and nudging Lexa into it. She sets the plate down and pokes Lexa in the cheek with a chopstick. “Eat.”

Lexa’s innocent look melts into a smile. Her eyelashes bat. “You’re so good to me.”

Clarke bends and kisses her temple. “Vixen.”

++

When her phone buzzes, Clarke sighs. Clicks her laptop shut and stands, stretching her fingers to the ceiling until something in her lower back cracks with a satisfying pop of pressure. She looks back at the couch beside where she was just sitting. “I know you heard the alarm.”

The Lexa lump, her hair spilling out over the blanket but no other features visible, doesn’t so much as twitch. Clarke waits. 

After a minute, her phone starts buzzing again, chiming as the snooze wears off and the alarm activates again. She holds it to Lexa’s ear, just outside the burrito of two throw blankets and one of Clarke’s own oversized t-shirts Lexa keeps insisting is hers, even though it bears the name of Clarke’s high school across the chest.

The Lexa lump stirs. It growls.

“Time to wake up,” Clarke sing-songs. “Wake up to bake up. Except the bake up is brunch at my mother’s house instead of weed.”

Lexa growls again.

Clarke prods her with the phone. “C’mon,” she coaxes. “We can shower together.”  
Lexa’s eyes peek out, suspicious. She makes a questioning noise.

“Yup,” Clarke responds, lighting up her phone’s screen to show the time. “Just enough time if you get up now.”

Lexa’s face goes calculating. Clarke realizes her mistake just as Lexa starts to wiggle back into the blankets, hunkering down for a siege. “No, you cannot sleep longer if we skip the shower--” Clarke grabs the edge of the blanket. “You are so grouchy when you don’t wash your hair first, Lexa--!”

Lexa flings the blanket away, dramatic. She rises to her feet, regal in Clarke’s t-shirt and one fuzzy sock scrunched halfway down her foot. She gives Clarke one last glower before sweeping away to the bathroom. Less than a minute later, her outraged noise at Clarke not joining her floats out, making Clarke smile.

“Coming,” she calls, picking the blanket off the floor and tossing it onto the sofa. “Don’t get started without me.”

++

Once in the shower, the water turned up hot and the room pleasantly steamy without becoming suffocating, her hair dampened and Clarke crowding her under the spray, Lexa loses her stormcloud face, sighing and nosing at Clarke’s shoulder, shivering in a pleased way to have Clarke’s hands on her skin.

Clarke kisses the tip of her nose, licks a rivulet of water running down her cheek. “Turn around, I’ll do your back.”

Lexa cuddles a little closer into Clarke’s chest, stubborn. Clarke rolls her eyes, tucking her chin on Lexa’s shoulder and going up slightly on her tiptoes to wash Lexa’s back while holding her at the same time. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

++

Lexa passive aggressively glowers at Clarke the entire ride over, huddled up in the passenger seat against the door and the window, casting big eyed, Sarah Mclaughlin-at-the-pound level looks at Clarke from under her hair, dried out frizzy and still faintly damp.

“I told you there wasn’t enough time to blow-dry,” Clarke reminds her. “Maybe if you hadn’t spent two minutes wrestling with me on the couch and another five refusing to get out of the shower, we--”

Lexa rolls down her window, reaches into the car’s cup holder, between the seats, and throws Clarke’s last stick of spearmint out of the car. She rolls the window back up.

Clarke fixes her eyes on the road, jaw flexing. “That was rude.”

++

Lexa sighs when they’re outside Abby’s front door. She slides her hand into Clarke’s and gives it a little squeeze, apologetic.

“Oh?” Clarke asks. “Are you awake now?”  
Lexa makes her face go all soft and sad and _I didn’t mean it, Clarke_. “I’ll buy you more gum.”

Clarke brings their linked hands to her mouth and kisses the inside of Lexa’s wrist, then each of her knuckles. “Three packs.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Lexa’s mouth. “Five, even.”

“Stop it,” Clarke teases, “we don’t have time for a quickie--”

Her mother opens the door. She arches an eyebrow.

“--uiche,” Clarke corrects poorly. “We didn’t have time to make that quiche we wanted to bring for brunch.”

“A shame,” her mother replies dryly. “Please, come in. There’s no quiche, however.”

“We’ll manage,” Lexa interjects smoothly, as they cross the threshold. “Thank you for your invitation.”

“Thank you for accepting it,” Abby replies, following them through the house towards the back patio. “I assume it _is_ you I have to thank for Clarke’s agreement?”

“Hardly,” Lexa flat out lies, pulling out Clarke’s chair for her before settling into her own. “Clarke was absolutely insistent we make it here on time this morning.”

Clarke starts to roll her eyes--she sees the tiny flush of hope on her mother’s face and curbs the impulse. “You know how seriously I take punctuality.”

Her mother doesn’t curb her own impulse to roll her eyes. “Hm.” She uncovers the dishes already laid out and waiting on the table. Nothing fancy, but: pancakes, still warm (banana chocolate chip, her father’s favourite, and blueberry, for Lexa), cut up fruit, bacon laid out on a nice plate but clearly from the prepackaged drop in the microwave and press the button end of the supermarket aisle. Scones from the bakery down the street.

“Looks good,” Clarke offers. It’s hard to snipe at her mother over the breakfast her father used to make them on special Sundays. For a long time, the ache of missing him was all they had in common.

Lexa spoons fruit onto her own plate, then Clarke’s, automatically picking the pineapple out of Clarke’s portion. Clarke tosses her a grateful look.

They make polite conversation, what’s going on at work, how Anya’s biker bar (restaurant, is what her mother delicately refers to it as, while Clarke fights very hard not to snort and Lexa surreptitiously smacks her hands away from texting Anya under the table about it) is doing, if Clarke got her oil changed.

“So,” her mother says, after the niceties are out of the way. “When are you two moving in together?”

Clarke chokes on a grape, setting off a series of wracking coughs, her eyes gone teary. She glowers as best she can between pressing her hand to her breastbone and the ache in her throat as she forces the grape down. Lexa rubs her back, concerned, then urges her to drink juice. “Mom!” she says, as soon as she’s able. “What the fuck!”

“Clarke,” her mother starts, and Clarke goes to stand up.

Lexa grips her hand under the table. “Excuse me,” she interrupts. “I need to use the facilities.” _Facilities_. Lexa gets formal when she feels awkward.

Clarke tries to yank Lexa back down, but Lexa twists neatly out of her grasp. “I’ll go with you,” Clarke tries.

“I think I can handle going to the bathroom by myself.” Lexa wiggles her fingers in a wave. “Be nice.”

“Am I so bad,” her mother starts, as soon as Lexa’s passed through the sliding door back into the house, “that you can’t imagine spending two minutes without your girlfriend as a buffer?”

“Not my girlfriend,” Clarke mutters, mulish and contrary.

Her mother scoffs in disbelief. “You’ve been dating for almost a year, not counting college. Do you even go back to your apartment anymore?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, glowering as she slouches. “I do.”

“Really? Because Raven says she’s started using your room as storage.”

“Raven is just fucking with me--and when do _you_ even talk to Raven?”

“Raven comes over every Sunday night with Anya. We have pot roast. Anya makes a good green bean casserole.”

If Clarke hadn’t just swallowed her sip of orange juice, she’d be choking again. As it is, she gapes, open mouthed, until her mother’s lips twitch upward. “Hilarious,” she snaps, snatching up a scone and cramming half of it into her mouth in one bite. “You should take your show on the road.”

“I’m choosing,” her mother says, spooning out more fruit onto Clarke’s plate and passive aggressively ensuring that it’s mostly pineapple, “to enjoy the fact that it’s yourself you’re lying to, and not me.”

The sliding door rattles in its frame. Lexa sits down next to Clarke, bumps their knees together under the table. “Back,” she says unnecessarily, into the silence. She looks at Clarke’s plate and frowns; picks out the pineapple and transfers it to her own. The silence drags on again, awkward and stilted.

++

“So that was weird,” Lexa ventures an hour later, behind the wheel and Clarke sulking in the passenger seat. “Do you want to…” she trails off. Shrugs. “Get ice cream?”

Clarke exhales, all the tension run out of her body. “I would fucking love some ice cream.”

Lexa holds both cones while Clarke pays. They walk down the street, through the crosswalk and to the path by the river. Mothers with strollers, people walking dogs, couples holding hands. And Lexa, refusing to relinquish Clarke’s double chocolate chip. 

“Lexa,” she whines, and then a gasp of betrayal when Lexa licks a wide stripe up from the edge of the cone to the very tip of the swirl. “That’s cruel.”

Lexa kisses Clarke’s cheek with sticky sugar lips, icy. They hold hands and eat ice cream on a wooden bench overlooking the water, and when Lexa shivers Clarke pulls her closer, tucked into her side and her cold hands worming under Clarke’s jacket and tucking under Clarke’s armpits with a satisfied noise.

A woman pauses, stretching by the railing, just as Lexa emerges from her burrowed place into Clarke’s side to stretch herself, rocking up on her toes and reaching for the sky to crack her neck and shoulder. The woman, a pretty dark haired girl in yoga pants and bright red sneakers, pauses to drag her eyes down Lexa, from the tips of her fingers to the boots she’s wearing, a birthday gift from Clarke. 

Clarke remembers how Lexa smiled when she opened the box, the way she breathed in deep and then crawled into Clarke’s lap to kiss her silly.

Clarke stands, abrupt. She yanks Lexa close and turns, shielding her from the woman’s view. Lexa wobbles, taken by surprise and off balance, and Clarke steadies her, hands on her waist and pulling her close for a kiss, rough and possessive and claiming. She keeps her eyes open to watch the woman flush pink at being caught watching and jog off down the path.

She breaks the kiss and Lexa sways, eyes fluttering open and heady, glazed and dreamy. “Shit,” Clarke says, feeling silly and petty and shaky. “Sorry.”

Lexa blinks a few more times. “Hmm?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” Clarke shifts on her feet, antsy. “Sorry. Let’s go home--your apartment, I mean.”

++

Clarke tries to convince Lexa she’s hungry. Lexa glares until Clarke sighs, closes the fridge, and follows her down the hall to the bedroom for a nap.

By the time she’s stepped out of her shoes and tossed her jacket in the general direction of Lexa’s closet, Lexa has stripped out of her jeans and her shirt, crawling under the comforter topless in her underwear and nestling into the mattress with a pleased noise. She makes a far less pleased noise at Clarke.

“Hold your horses,” Clarke says, digging her phone out of her pocket before she too shucks her jeans.

She crawls in behind Lexa, meaning to spoon her, but Lexa turns with a soft sigh, pressing her face into Clarke’s neck, tangling their legs. Clarke exhales, feeling Lexa’s warm skin against hers, the gentle moving of her chest as she breathes, the warm huff of air tickling against her throat. Her hand roves down Lexa’s spine, resting in the small of her back and pulling her closer.

Lexa makes the softest noises in her sleep, mostly when Clarke moves her around. But just those, just-- her breathing, and the whisper of her skin on the sheets when she shifts. Her warmth seeping into the blankets and joining with Clarke’s. How sometimes they wake up holding hands. It’s so painfully everything Clarke’s every wanted that it makes her stay up late; she doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss a single second.

++

Clarke’s alarm wakes her. She turns it off with a touch and rolls onto Lexa, pinning her down and waking her with a kiss. 

Lexa makes a pleased noise, eyes staying closed as she tips her head back. Clarke sinks her teeth into Lexa’s throat, sucking until the very faintest hint of copper skates across her tongue.

Lexa hums. Her toes curl against Clarke’s ankle, then skate up her calf as she hooks her leg around Clarke’s hip, pulling her closer. Her fingers trail up Clarke’s ribs, tickling, then drag down, the sensation sending rippling shivers through Clarke’s entire body. She arches, baring more of her throat, her chest rising and too tempting for Clarke to pass over. She releases Lexa’s throat, noting with satisfaction the dark marks she’s left behind, and starts a slow suckling trail of devotion from the top of Lexa’s collarbone to her breasts, one and then the other and extra attention to each nipple. Trails down across Lexa’s belly to dip her tongue into Lexa’s belly button, to make her squirm and giggle.

Lexa’s hand lands in her hair as she goes lower, then ghosts around the shell of Clarke’s ear, the underside of her jaw, tapping a little bit at the back of Clarke’s neck, a nervous request Clarke understands. She reaches up Lexa’s body and links their hands, gripping reassuringly and resting them over Lexa’s heart. Lexa relaxes, just a little, but as close as they are, as linked and connected, Clarke can feel every little twitch of her, every bit of tension in her muscles. And all she wants is the good tension, the way Lexa’s legs go taught when Clarke kisses the inside of her thighs, the tendons in her throat standing out when she throws her head back on the pillows and moans at the first touch of Clarke’s tongue between her legs, where she’s soft and warm and slick dripping down Clarke’s chin.

Clarke loves a Lexa who’s just woken up. Loves to slip her fingers inside her, loves kissing her sleep slack mouth, loves kissing her all over and inside. She always comes so soft and lazy, undulating against Clarke’s mouth and murmuring Clarke’s name, punch drunk and hazy, especially if Clarke takes the time to mark her up all pretty first.

And this morning it’s no different. First her thighs tense around Clarke’s head, then her grip goes tight on Clarke’s hand. Then she moans, long and low and cracked in the middle when she pauses to whimper Clarke’s name. And the denouement, her limp pliant body and her half-lidded eyes and the smile that creeps across her face, her mussed hair and the flush in her cheeks.

Clarke crawls up her body for a kiss, Lexa licking the taste of herself from Clarke’s tongue, the back of her teeth, the insides of her cheeks. Clarke’s phone chimes, breaking the moment and the kiss. 

“Fuck,” she mutters. “We gotta get up.”

“Mm,” Lexa says. She presses against one of the bruises on her throat and flutters her eyelashes.

“This time it’s your family,” Clarke says, “so don’t look at me like that. ‘Schedule both for the same day, Clarke. It’ll get everything out of the way and give us Sunday to relax, Clarke’.”

Lexa grumbles. Then she sighs and sits up. “Fine. But I’m not fucking you until we get back.” She heads for the bathroom.

Clarke scrambles off the bed. “Hey! Wait! We can be a little late, right? Lexa? _Lexa??_ ”

++

There’s a green bean casserole on the table, and Clarke is one hundred percent certain it’s a direct result of brunch with her mother that morning. She glares at Raven. “You’re not funny. Neither of you are funny.”

“I’m funny,” Anya says, coming to the table with a platter of rotisserie chicken she claims to have made even though Clarke knows for a fact the oven in this apartment has been broken for two years and the packaging from the supermarket down the street is clearly visible at the top of the trashcan. “I’ve always been funny.”

“Of course,” Raven assures her, as everyone takes their seats around the rickety table, just barely big enough for three serving dishes and paper plates for everyone else. “You’re hilarious, babe.” She kisses Anya’s cheek.

Clarke mimes throwing up in the mashed potatoes. Lexa bumps their knees together, chiding.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Clarke says dutifully.

Anya’s eyes narrow. “And thank you for mauling up my sister.” Lexa pinks. She adjusts the collar of her shirt.

Clarke chokes on a green bean. It seems to be her theme for the day.

Raven pours Lexa some water, leaning across the table to hand it to Lexa’s. “I’ll do that,” Clarke snaps, recovering in time to abruptly stand and snatch it away. She half turns, blocking Raven’s line of sight to Lexa, and her voice goes soft. “Here, baby.”

Anya mimes throwing up into the casserole.

++

“Baby,” Clarke says in the car. “We don’t have to go. It’s just drinks with some people from the hospital. If you’re tired. I’d be just as happy going home and going to bed early. Three things in one day… that’s a lot.”

Lexa yawns, nestling into the passenger seat. “You’ve been looking forward to this all week. And we can sleep in tomorrow, right?”

“I promise,” Clarke tells her, reaching across the gearshift to hold Lexa’s hand atop her knee. “Takeout and naps and that weird show you like.”

Lexa huffs. “It’s _educational_.”

“It’s _boring_ ,” Clarke counters, “but I love you, and I will be your pillow and handfeed you crackers and not talk over the narrator.”

Lexa smiles. She leans over to kiss Clarke’s cheek at the redlight. “I’ll put the subtitles on,” she whispers seductively, teeth nipping at Clarke’s earlobe, “so you can talk all you want.” Her hand worms between Clarke’s legs and traces the inner seam of her jeans. Clarke’s breath catches.

The car behind them beeps their horn, the light gone green. Clarke jolts; Lexa retreats back to her own seat.

++

The bar is lowkey, Clarke notes with relief. Less blaring music and more gently lit ambiance, classic rock in the background and the low rumble of people chatting. Clarke nods at the group waving at her from a corner booth, then leans in close to murmur in Lexa’s ear. “You want a drink, baby?”

Lexa shakes her head. “I’ll get it. Go say hi to your friends, save me a seat.”

Clarke frowns, her grip on Lexa’s elbow tightening. Lexa blinks at her, questioning. Clarke immediately lets go. “Sorry. Yeah. Yeah, see you soon. Get me a beer?”

Lexa nods, and slips into the light crowd, making her way to the bar. Clarke heads to the booth. Greets her coworkers, shucks her jacket and slips into the empty space. She immediately gets sucked into a debate about an incident with a patient and a urine sample, and it’s a full five minutes before she frowns, looking back at the bar. She sees Lexa’s dark hair at the bar--and next to her. Someone else. A blonde with short nails and ankle boots and Clarke is out of her seat without another word, hearing her name called after in confusion and not responding.

“--torte law,” Lexa is saying to the woman, who’s leaned in close, her shirtneck scooping and her eyes done up smoky, twirling a curl around one finger. “Clarke,” Lexa greets. “This is Sara, she’s curious about class action lawsuits.”

“I’m sure,” Clarke says, like ice. Lexa is opening her mouth, and Clarke steals her words from her, her palm around Lexa’s throat, bumping against Lexa’s back until she’s pinned between Clarke and the bar, kissing Clarke over her shoulder. Clarke nips at her bottom lip, tugging it out before releasing. “Nice to meet you,” she says like silk and lace and gunsteel. “Now leave.”

Lexa waits until they’re back to the booth. “I’m going to take off,” she says, and her hand was stiff in Clarke’s all the way through the crowd. “Can I trust any of you to call a cab for Clarke at last call?”

Clarke’s coworkers laugh, goodnaturedly promising to protect Clarke’s virtue, but Clarke stands. “Lexa, I--”

Lexa’s hand on her elbow. “It’s alright, Clarke. Have a good time.”

++

Clarke barely lasts another hour.

She makes her excuses, pays up for her tab, orders an Uber on her phone. Texts Lexa three times while she waits. The ride over feels like an eternity, like a cramping in her belly. She thinks about what she’d do if Lexa broke up with her and almost throws up in the backseat.

 

Lexa is on the couch when she gets back, in her fuzzy wool nighttime socks and Clarke’s hoodie and one hand dangling off the armrest. Her eyes flicker under the lids, restless; Clarke knows she’s upset because she’s not tucked into bed wrapped around Clarke’s pillow and hogging most of the mattress.

Clarke goes to the kitchen first. Makes tea and carries it out to the coffee table. Uses the coasters Lexa leaves out because now is not the time for their usual flirty argument about them. Then she touches Lexa’s elbow, crouched down so she’s not looming over her when she walked up. “Lexa,” she whispers, and then--hesitates, but still--a soft kiss to coax Lexa awake.

“Mm,” Lexa says, drowsy but mostly alert. “You’re back early.”

Clarke snorts. “You really think I could have a good time when you’re here mad at me?”

“Not mad,” Lexa mumbles, eyes still just barely slitted open. She sniffs the air. “Tea?”

Clarke passes her the mug, then sits beside her. “Not happy, though.”

“No,” Lexa agrees. Then she snuggles into Clarke’s side, causing a wave of relief to swamp Clarke and leave her shaky. “You know why.”

Clarke sighs, tipping her head back on the sofa. “I know. I know, I do. It was---completely unacceptable. You should be mad.”

Lexa shrugs. She sips her tea. “It’s not--.” She stops, frowns. “You know not to do it again. That’s not the issue. The issue is why it happened.” She takes another sip and sets her mug aside.

Clarke avoids answering. She looks around the room. Her shoes by the wall in the entryway next to Lexa’s, her bag on the chair. Her clothes in the closet down the hall, her shampoo in the shower stall and her toothbrush in the cup by the sink. The brand of coffee she likes in the cupboard, the key on her ring and the extra parking space in the garage downstairs. “I want to move in,” she says, and it’s a lightening of her shoulders as soon as she says it. “I don’t want to ever sleep in a room that doesn’t have your name next to mine on the lease.”

Lexa yawns. “Okay,” she says.

Clarke blinks rapidly. “Okay?”

“Mm,” Lexa agrees, snuggling into Clarke's lap. “Carry me.”

Clarke snorts. She kisses the tip of Lexa’s nose. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

Lexa slits open one eye, narrowed. “You said naps all day tomorrow.”

Clarke stands, then helps Lexa to her feet. “One day,” she agrees. “Not tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think and catch me on tumblr @ feeltripping


End file.
